


To Be a Painter (And Cover All the Blue)

by dawnperhaps



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnperhaps/pseuds/dawnperhaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn’t want to believe that Gabriel might be back when Sam needs him the most.  He’s Sam Winchester, after all, and his life doesn’t work out that well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be a Painter (And Cover All the Blue)

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Dean and Castiel are pulled into Purgatory. Not a whole lot of plot, but I might expand on this “verse” later.

Gabriel shows up on Sam’s dresser usually, perched up there like a very judgmental bird.  Most likely a parrot, Sam thinks, because he never shuts up.

At first, Sam is able to ignore him.  Castiel’s miracle cure for his insanity may have gotten rid of the Lucifer-related hallucinations, but Sam still has his memories, which leave him with a lot of practical knowledge.  For instance, how to ignore a chatty archangel that, as far as Sam can tell, is trying to drive him to hysteria.  Gabriel’s methods are considerably more humane, characterized by a sort of bored arrogance and love of his own voice as opposed to Lucifer’s psychotic sadism, but that doesn’t mean Sam isn’t close to setting him on fire.  He’s frustrated that this is happening again, that something went wrong and the cure swapped out one obnoxious supernatural creature for another, and he doesn’t know what to do besides try to ignore his budding insanity and continue to search for a way into Purgatory.

Gabriel, however, isn’t very fond of being ignored, and after a week of him rambling on about Sam’s hair and Sam’s ass in whatever jeans he’s wearing and Sam’s horrible taste in shirts, he moves on to describing, in incredibly graphic and very nonangelic detail, what he and Sam could be doing if they starred in Casa Erotica together.  Which, if this really is Sam’s subconscious speaking to him, is really horrifying on several different levels.  He’d be lying if he tried to claim that this isn’t hurting him, that hearing this ghost – a phantom of the lost object of his affections – mocking what was once something like a relationship doesn’t remind him of how he’d failed, how he’d failed anyone who’d ever deigned to love him.

“I’d probably bottom for you,” Gabriel – this illusion of Gabriel – muses, examining his fingernails in a very bored fashion.  If Sam weren’t two seconds away from ripping his own hair out of his head, he might be impressed by Gabriel’s ability to just keep talking despite the fact that he’s obviously no longer interested in Sam’s reaction, probably lost in thoughts of ancient Greece and Jungian psychology and the mathematical equations behind the theory of black holes, or whatever it is archangels use their unfathomably massive minds to think about.

“The kielbasa joke might have to be altered a bit, but that’s doable.  It’d be worth the reward, anyway.  Considering you’re proportional.”  He doesn’t even look up, apparently preferring to inspect the lines on his palms.  Sam feels the first piece of his resolve crumble.  And considering how fragile it was to begin with, it doesn’t take long for the rest of it to follow suit.

“And even if you weren’t proportional, you’re freakishly tall, so it’d probably be more aesthetically pleasing with you on top and doing all the heavy lifting.  Especially with those back muscles, because hot damn, kiddo, you must-“

“Shut up!”

Sam barely even recognizes that it’s his voice until he realizes he’s breathing heavily and gritting his teeth and clenching his fists tight enough to leave little crescent-shaped indents in his palms.  It’s probably a good thing that Dean isn’t here to see him jumping out of his chair to shout at his dresser.  The idea that he might get Dean back only to be a burden to him all over again sends a cold shock down his spine, unpleasant but not entirely unfamiliar.

Gabriel obeys him for a moment, the angel’s eyes sparkling with amusement and something else, something less antagonistic.  Sam just stares at him, waiting for him to vanish or maybe even turn into Lucifer, but it doesn’t happen.  Gabriel just waits, his smirk morphing into a gentler smile.  He suddenly looks like an archangel, kind and wise and impossibly old, and Sam has to turn away, frustrated with his own subconscious.

“Doesn’t really feel like you’re one fry short a Happy Meal, does it?” Gabriel asks, more carefully than Sam expects.

Sam falls into his chair sideways and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.  His laptop glows in front of him, covered in pages and pages of websites that have done nothing to help him.  He isn’t even sure what he’s looking for anymore, and Gabriel’s pseudo-presence has only been distracting him.  “I watched you die,” he says slowly, feeling ridiculous for arguing with himself aloud.  It’s Lucifer all over again, only this time without the fire and the horrible memories that will forever be attached to him, regardless of Castiel’s intercession.

“No, you didn’t,” Gabriel corrects, rolling his eyes.  “You watched Kali pitch a bitch fit about getting into your car.  I was the only one of us who saw me die.”

“So you did,” Sam says.  “Die.”

“Umm, yeah?” Gabriel says, like it’s obvious, like he didn’t just make an argument to the contrary.  “I was up against Lucifer.  The age gap might not be huge, but there is a big difference between the toys given to the Messenger and the ones given to the _Morningstar_.”

Sam just stares at him, feeling ridiculous as he tries to find some sort of clue that he might not be solid.  Lucifer used to disappear for brief moments of time, like he was caught in between two different dimensions, but this image of Gabriel hasn’t so much as flickered.  The archangel raises an eyebrow at him when Sam continues to stare, but then his expression settles into something that looks long-suffering and bemused.  He lifts a finger, waving it in front of his face, and then proceeds to knock all of Sam’s belongings off his dresser, one by one, tipping them over with precise little flicks.  Sam watches the demonstration in shock, not really caring when his cell phone shatters as it hits the ground.

“Don’t read my mind,” Sam says – he’s said it so many times – but it doesn’t have much fire behind it because he’s sort of in awe.  Because Gabriel might be real and he might not be alone.  And that doesn’t make any sense to Sam, but he’s willing to take it.

“You know, Castiel comes back to life about twice a week and you never ignore him,” Gabriel complains, crossing his arms petulantly.  “But  _no_ , Gabriel the motherfucking _Archangel_  returns from the dead and he must be a hallucination.  This is blatant favoritism, kiddo.  I am feeling massively underappreciated.”

“God likes Castiel better than you,” Sam points out, and Gabriel balks at him for a moment.  It’s subtle, but Sam catches it, the slightly offended but also thoughtful look that indicates that Gabriel’s never really considered that idea before.

“Lucifer beat up everyone in a library once,” Sam continues, gesturing to the remnants of his possessions.  Truthfully, he would give almost anything to have an ally – to have  _Gabriel_  – here and willing to help, or even just here, something to rid Sam of the loneliness that’s been slowly settling over him just a fog, something he needs to escape or perhaps curl up in and hide.  But that doesn’t mean it’s actually happening.  Sam’s navigated his way through this conundrum too many times and it always ends the same way – with Sam broken, alive only because he has no one to blame but himself and it wouldn’t be noble to forgo his punishment.  Surviving, Sam has found, is often more painful than death.  And he’s experienced both.

“Yeah, but did he actually do that?  Or was that the crazy talking?” Gabriel asks, drawing Sam back to his question.  “Try to use your cell phone now.  I dare you.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Sam says, shaking his head.  “Why now?  Why not… before, when I was crazy?  Or still crazy.  Whatever.”

“Didn’t exactly get consulted on the timing,” Gabriel says with a shrug.  “I just know I’m here now.  And you’re barking up all the wrong trees.”

That makes Sam look up in surprise, his jaw dropping.  The only thing Sam’s had to keep him sane is his research, although he has to admit that the findings have been few and far between.

“Did you really think church websites and conspiracy theorists were going to tell you anything useful about Purgatory?” Gabriel asks, raising an eyebrow.  “Come on, kiddo.  You know better than that.”  His smile softens again and he tilts his head in that strange way of angels.  “You’re getting desperate.  It’s clouding your judgment.  Just like it did when Dean was in Hell.  Just like it did when I stuck you in a time loop.”

Sam knows he’s right.  Gabriel, for all his sass and bravado, has always had knack for reading him, dissecting and pulling out his flaws to lay in front of him for proper facing.  But he’s always there to stand behind afterwards, too, and help Sam become something better.

“I read one book,” Sam says tentatively.  “It said you cast out the Leviathans to begin with.”  He hadn’t wanted to think about it too hard because Gabriel wasn’t an option, so the aching in Sam’s chest upon reading the angel’s name wasn’t worth it.  Now, he looks up at Gabriel with a careful sort of hope.  “Do you… you know how to open Purgatory, then?”

“The door locked behind me, but I never had a key,” Gabriel admits.  “But I know a few things.  A lot more than Purgatory.com can tell you; that’s for sure.”

“Purgatory.com is a Colorado ski resort website,” Sam says without thinking, and when Gabriel guffaws, he finds himself smiling a little.  He’d typed it into his search bar in a moment of panic induced lunacy when Dean and Castiel first vanished.

“I’ll help in any way I can, Sam,” Gabriel promises in a moment of seriousness.  “Believe it or not, your brother and little Castiel being in Purgatory isn’t exactly good for the delicate balance of the universe.  And it’s safer for me to kamikaze into Purgatory, anyway.”

“If you think I’m letting you go into Purgatory after them,” Sam says with a disbelieving huff, a little too familiar.  “Then you’re batshit.”

Gabriel smiles indulgently, like he’s endeared by Sam’s protectiveness, but also finds it adorably idiotic that Sam thinks he could stop him.  Sam hates that look.  It’s the same look he saw right before Gabriel faced off against Lucifer, although at the time Sam had no idea what it meant.  Now that he knows, he has the sudden urge to punch it off his face, or maybe kiss it away.

“Regardless of whether you want the full package or not, you’ve got an Archangel with wings, phenomenal cosmic powers, an unfathomable knowledge of everything ever Created  _ever_ , and a willingness to jump into one of the universe’s most terrifying prisons.  And all this can be yours for ten easy payments of reenacting Casa Erotica avec moi,” Gabriel purrs, jumping down from the dresser with a lecherous grin.

“No,” Sam says quickly, shaking his head.  “No way.  No sex.”  He keeps his gaze lowered as the silence between them steadily grows.

“Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for,” Gabriel says eventually, the teasing tone still there, but accompanied by a something sadder, something hurt.  Sam doesn’t like thinking about the thoughts that must be crossing Gabriel’s mind, but he stays steady in his conviction.  “Thought I’d at least get a ‘Thank goodness you’ve alive’ kiss.”

“If you aren’t real,” Sam begins, desperation coloring his firmness a little blue.  It feels like Ruby all over again, the sex and the distractions from doing what he needs to do: help Dean.  “If this some sort of fucked up delusion or a trick or something-”

“I’ll keep my hands to myself until you say otherwise,” Gabriel concedes, although his smirk tells Sam that the angel is pretty certain he’ll eventually say otherwise.  Seeing Gabriel and knowing he’s close, that Sam could reach out and actually touch him, is already wearing at Sam’s determination, even if he only wants to use that closeness to grab onto him and beg him not to leave again.

“In the meantime, shut that laptop and crack open a copy of Gregory’s  _Dialogues_ ,” Gabriel orders, falling into the chair across from Sam and snapping.  The aforementioned book lands in Sam’s lap with a gentle thud, and he stares at it in wonder, still not used to Gabriel’s abilities.  Gabriel crosses his arms.  “It’s an old-school place, so you oughta do a little old-school research, don’t you think?”

Sam looks up, still feeling conflicted but suddenly overwhelmed by an intense, undeniable need to hope again.  It’s dangerous, maybe, but he feels more like himself than he’s felt in weeks.

“Thank you,” he says honestly.  Gabriel waves off his gratitude, but he seems almost… brighter.

“Get reading,” the Archangel advises, and then he’s gone with a simple snap of his fingers.  Sam stares at the place he was sitting for several minutes, just breathing and processing.

He’s alone again, stuck in a dismal hotel room with nothing but his research, his mission, and a possibly relapsing tendency to hallucinate.  But then, as he touches the cool leather of the book in his hands and shifts his gaze to his broken cell phone, the scent of peppermint invades his senses, and he doesn’t feel so alone.


End file.
